


sweet serial killer

by Coara



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:26:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2435357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coara/pseuds/Coara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty is the one to save Joan from Le Milieu. Spending time together after that comes naturally. Building trust isn't easy though, but Joan tries.</p><p>Or: five times they want to kiss and one time they finally do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. wish I may, wish I might

 

She doesn't know where the feeling comes from, but Jamie just _knows_ that something went wrong.

Some of her men were shadowing Mycroft Holmes and his illegal-legal activities with the _Le Milieu_ for the last months. Mycroft is Sherlock’s brother through and through, just as foolish, but sadly not that clever-minded. It is no surprise to her that the _Le Milieu_ made a move against Mycroft sooner rather than later.

What Jamie didn’t predict was the kidnapping of one Joan Watson. Mycroft yes, even Sherlock she would have understood, but at that moment she didn’t know about the involvement of Mycroft and Watson.

Jamie is infuriated. How can both Holmes brothers be that inane to let that happen?

Armed with two Glocks and a hunting knife, she storms out of her apartment, bellowing commands at her driver when she slides into the backseat.

With a practiced move she changes the SIM of her phone and punches in a memorized number.

She tries to calm herself. It would be no good if she’d shoot someone for just glancing in her direction.

After the second ring she hears a sleepy, female voice. „It’s three a.m. here M.“

Jamie chuckles humorless. „I don’t really care, darling. I need you to track down every hideaway and rathole of the _Le Milieu_ in New York. Preferably twenty minutes ago.“ 

 

#

 

On the other side of the road she can see the guard. Smoking and typing on his phone. Not paying that much attention to the traffic let alone to them - Jamie herself and two of her best henchmen -  standing in the shadows of a big apartment building. 

All three of them look at their phone screens, memorizing the layout of the building they are going to enter in a few minutes. Jamie swipes her thumb over the screen. It lights up with a picture of Watson.

„We are looking for this woman. Everyone else is free to kill. If you find her before I do, call me and give me your location ASAP. Understood?“, _yes Ma’am_ s are grunted, „If one of you harms her in any way I will not hesitate to treat you like every single one of this french _imbéciles._ “

 

#

 

Joan looks at her shackled ankles. After her kidnapper shot his cousin she wasn't needed anymore. So they threw her into the room she’d woken up in again, chained her to a heating pipe - which is, to her relief, not in usage right now - and made sure she couldn’t move much without dislocating her shoulder.

The room that seems to be an old storage room is dark, only lit by some light that shines through cracks in the wooden coverage of the windows.

She sighs and tries to sit a little bit more comfortable, the handcuffs clanging against the metal of the heating pipe. Resting her head against it, Joan shuts her eyes and lets her thoughts drift. To Mycroft, to Sherlock. How Sherlock had warned her. How she didn’t listen and is now, thanks to Mycroft, in this fucked up situation. And for a glimpse of a moment Joan even thinks about Moriarty and the Kayden Fuller case. How both, Moriarty and Sherlock, had done everything to find that little girl. 

Joan is sure Sherlock is moving heaven and earth to find her right now. It would only take a few more hours. She repeats that in her head until she looses all sense of time.

Only the noise of her breathing and the clinking of the metal of the handcuffs echoes through the room. It is so quiet her ears are ringing. 

The silence is disturbed when the door is slammed open and her kidnapper storms into the room, weapon drawn, his eyes frantic. A series of shots from somewhere in the building lets Joan flinch. „What is happening?“, her voice is raspy and she tugs on her chains.

Voices, screams, shots and footsteps are coming closer and closer and with a desperate, crazy fire in his eyes Joan’s captor kneels down beside her, presses the muzzle of the gun against Joan’s temple. His eyes flickering back and forth between her and the door.

Joan sees someone enter the room out of the corner of her eyes, but before she can turn her head, her captor hits her with the slide of his gun and everything goes black.

 

#

 

Jamie doesn’t bother ringing the bell, with a few well known movements of her lock picks the door of the brownstone is open. She motions for her driver, who is carrying the still unconscious Watson, to follow her. 

The sound of the arguing Holmes brothers can be heard in the hallway already. Glock in her gloved hand she enters the living room, silencing the bickering siblings with her entrance. They both take a step forward when they see Watson, but with a motion of her free hand she stops them. Before either one of them can open their mouth, she turns to her driver. „Upstairs, second door to the left.“

When he gives and affirmative grunt she looks back to Sherlock and Mycroft, both men rendered speechless it seems. 

With two steps she is next to Mycroft, raises her Glock and presses it against his temple. „Give me one good reason I shouldn’t penetrate your malfunctioning brain with one of my bullets for what you let happen to Watson?“

Sherlock chuckles and sits down in his armchair. „This could turn out very interesting.“

Mycroft glances at his brother, back at Jamie. She can see his pulse jump at his neck.

„What do you want? Joan is none of your concern as far as I know.“, he gulps when Jamie presses the muzzle harder against his skull, „Shouldn’t you be threatening Sherlock for catching you?“

„Now, Mycroft, don’t get me into this. Please, do continue.“, he waves a hand in Jamie’s direction, „I like the visual of this gun pointed at your head, brother. I’d rather it be me at the end of the trigger, for I should have done it the first time we spotted the _Le Milieu_ at your restaurant. But I’m sure Moriarty will do a splendid job.“

„Please let me at least explain-“, he stops mid sentence when Jamie tuts at him. 

„You should be aware of my knowledgeof your involvement with all those authorities, Mycroft. That doesn’t justify you putting Watson in that kind of danger.“, Jamie rolls her eyes when he opens his mouth again, „I’m not finished yet. What is or is not my concern is first and foremost _my_ decision. With Watson kidnapped and you and Sherlock running in circles I thought it a concern of mine to get her out of there.“

„Involvement?“, Sherlock butts in, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

„I’m sure your dear brother will explain all of it.“, Jamie lowers the Glock and with her free hand grabs the collar of Mycroft’s shirt, with the other she shoves the gun into one of his slack hands until he grips it firmly. „ _You_ will clean up the mess you caused yourself. And now,“ she releases Mycroft and glares pointedly at both Holmes brothers, „if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see how Joan is doing.“

 

#

 

Joan startles awake with a gasp, sitting up and instantly regretting it. Her head aches, the room seems to spin and she has to lie down again and take a few deep breaths to swallow down the bile rising in her throat.

Opening her eyes again, rubbing her temple with one hand, she looks up at the ceiling. A familiar ceiling. Not the plain cement of the storage room. Her limbs aren’t chained anymore. She’s at the brownstone, in her room, her bed. She inhales the scent of her own sheets.

„I’m home.“, a grin splits her face. Though her brain feels like mush and her muscles are sore, pure relief floods her.

„Indeed you are. And awake. Finally. I started to worry if we should have brought you to a hospital after all. Even though Sherlock wanted to keep the whole situation in our more or less petite group of acquaintances.“

Joan turns her head - too fast she notices, the room begins to spin again - only to see Moriarty sitting in an armchair next to her bed, a book opened in her lap. Joan’s first instinct is to jump up and run as fast as she can, but, after she shifts a bit under her sheets and notices how her whole body just _aches_ , would clearly not be able to get very far. Also Moriarty could have killed her in her sleep if she wanted to harm her. At least Joan hopes so. She groans. „Please tell me you didn’t kill Sherlock.“

A small smile tugs at Moriarty’s lips. „Now, Watson, why would you insinuate such a cruel thing?“

„Don’t know, sixth sense?“, Joan shuts her eyes tightly, trying to get rid of the dizziness, „How did you get an armchair into this room?“

„The Holmes brothers are quite able to lift some weight. And to answer your question, no, I didn’t kill Sherlock. Though I would have loved to murder his foolish brother.“

„But-“

„Don’t worry Mycroft is still very much alive. Maybe he has some trouble at work now, but Sherlock should be the one to fill you in on that.“

Joan groans again. She just wants to sleep, preferably for days. Rolling onto her back, she throws her left arm over her eyes. „You saved me, didn’t you?“, her voice is just barely above a whisper. Joan can hear Moriarty move in her seat, the book is flipped shut.

„Yes.“

„Why?“

But Moriarty doesn’t answer and the silence filling the room is intense and makes her skin prickle, until Joan can’t bear it anymore and looks at Moriarty again. 

She is staring at Joan, pupils dilated, a faint blush on her cheeks. Her look, unguarded, uncontrolled, sends a shiver down Joan’s spine. But before she can enjoy this kind of attention too much the mask of Moriarty is back in place.

„You should rest now, Watson. I put an ibuprofen in the drawer of your night table, your head must hurt quite a bit.“, Moriarty rises - and this is the first time, Joan believes, she has seen _Moriarty_ in ordinary clothes - and steps closer to the bed. Joan wants to say more, wants to ask so many questions, but Moriarty just leans down and presses a small kiss to her temple. „If you need anything, I won’t be far.“, is whispered against her skin.


	2. if i pray really tight

She is running, muscles contracting and relaxing in forced agony. The sweat soaked shirt clinging to her upper body like a second skin. Lactate in every cell of her muscles makes it harder and harder to keep her fast pace.

Joan pushes her body, wants to feel the pain, wants to get rid of the pictures in her head. When she closes her eyes she is in the storage room again. Gun pointed at her head. In her dreams, more often than not, he shoots before Moriarty can stop him, the report of the gun finally forcing her awake.

Talking with her therapist had helped. At least the rational part of her mind is calmer when she thinks about what had happened and even now, at the brink of dawn, she isn’t afraid to get abducted again. Still, the fear lingers and lets Joan look over her shoulder whenever there is a sound she can’t categorize.

„Surround yourself with family and friends. People you can trust and make you feel safe.“, her therapist had said, but Joan doesn’t want to get wrapped into a bubble of pity by her mother or Oren. Sherlock is cautious around her, but treats her like nothing had happened. Joan _feels_ safe with him.

But when she wakes from her nightmares, heart racing, tears nearly falling, the only thing that can calm her down is the memory of Moriarty next to her bed, watching over her.

 

#

 

 „Mycroft, I really don’t want to talk to you right now.“, all Joan wants is to get into a hot shower and not talk with her… whatever he is, _was_. She pushes past him when he blocks the stairs to the brownstone. 

„Joan, please.“, he grabs her hand with both of his, „Let me just explain.“

Joan closes her eyes for a moment, before she takes a deep breath and turns around, yanking her hand free. „Sherlock explained everything I have to know. You kept all this information from him, from _me_. You could, no, should have at least told Sherlock. He could have kept us both save or at least could have helped you with _Le Milieu_.“, anger wells up and tears are making her sight blurry. She takes a step back from him, her fingers clenching around her house keys, the metal piercing her skin. „But no, the great MI-6 agent doesn’t need any help, he rather wants to see his… his _affair_ getting abducted by some high listed criminals!“

„You were never just an affair to me, Joan!“

„That’s all you have to say about this situation?“, Joan’s fists are shaking, as is her voice, frustrated, sad and tired. „I-I don’t know what to say anymore. Please. Just leave me alone.“

„Joan-“, Mycroft is interrupted when simultaneously the door of the brownstone is opened by Sherlock and a car door slams shut behind him.

Sherlock steps next to Joan, single-stick from his training still in hand. „I thought you left already for London, dear brother. What an absolute delight to see you lurking in front of our home like the criminals you seem so fond of.“

Mycroft steps down and nearly bumps into Moriarty. Both, she and Sherlock, wear the same murderous expression and Joan doesn't know if she should laugh about it or be concerned for Mycroft’s wellbeing.

„I’m going to make some tea.“, mumbling Joan doesn’t wait for a response when she turns and walks through the door, leaving the British trio behind.

On her way to the kitchen Joan takes Clyde with her. She puts him on the counter and gives him a fresh piece of spinach out of the fridge.

„Can I hide with you in there?“, as the tortoise munches on the leaf Joan lets her finger run over the bumps and ridges in Clyde’s shell.

She doesn’t want to feel weak, doesn't want to run away, but Mycroft’s appearance triggered a turmoil of emotions and now her only thought is to hide under her blanket and wishing for the nightmares to vanish on their own.

 

#

 

„What do you want?“

„Don’t be rude Sherlock, I just wanted to check on Watson.“, Jamie sits down, leaning back into the armchair.

Sherlock, the single-stick hasn’t left his hand so far, whips back and forth on the balls of his feet and makes a dismissive motion with the wooden weapon. „Now that you have seen her, you can be on your way again.“

„I don’t think so.“, she uncross-crosses her legs, her mouth morphing into a half-grin when she sees Sherlock’s eyes following the movement, „There isn’t any urgent business right now and Watson still seems shaken. I know you can be a lovely man to be around, but I think she needs other company than a tortoise and someone who can be as blunt as that single-stick when it comes to emotions.“

„And you think yourself as suitable company for Watson? You? Seductress, manipulator, murderer?“, he spits the last words and moves to a more aggressive stand.

„Yes,“, Jamie’s posture tenses, her expression turning cold, „in fact I do.“

 

#

 

The mirror is fogged up when Joan steps out of the shower. Hot water, as hot as she can handle, made her skin flush and her cycle drop. Dizziness overcomes her when she’s wrapping herself into a fluffy towel and she has to grab the sink to not just faceplant the tiled floor.

Joan doesn’t like too hot showers, but the heat, the pain of it, helps to clear her head. She knows it’s the wrong way to deal with this, but… „Shit.“

Joan finger combs her hair when she walks to her room, her legs a bit wobbly. The house is silent, except the rhythmic thud of Sherlock hitting the dummy.

Entering her room she stops in the doorway, holding the towel tighter to her body. „What are you doing here?“

Moriarty, sitting on the edge of her bed, closes the book she was reading - a worn-out copy of Foucault’s _Discipline and Punish_ \- and lets her eyes linger on Joan’s rather exposed body. „Why, I was waiting for you of course.“

Clyde is still sitting on the bedside table, a half-eaten strawberry in front of him.

Joan feels heat climbing into her cheeks, when Moriarty doesn’t stop looking at her legs. With a few fast steps she is at her wardrobe, opens it and hides behind the doors. She takes a deep breath. „Would you mind waiting someplace else?“, Joan stops herself, before she lets the towel fall. She’s sure Moriarty can’t see her there, but she doesn’t want to take any chances.

„If it makes you more comfortable I could turn around or close my eyes. I’d rather stay here, though, Sherlock was a little bit too enthusiastic waving his wooden toy in my direction.“

„Afraid of getting hurt?“, Joan scoffs, takes a peek around the door and Moriarty is, in fact, watching Clyde right now, before dropping the towel and putting on her underwear.

„No, but I thought it wouldn’t be to your liking if _he_ had bruises when I ask you.“

„Ask me?“, Joan slips into a pair of jeans, wiggling and jumping a bit when the tight cloth sticks to her still damp skin. Tugging a simple grey sweater over her head, Joan steps out of her little hiding place.

Moriarty smiles when she sees Joan, rises and steps closer. The height difference is bigger now that Joan isn’t wearing any shoes. Joan tilts her head to look up into Moriarty’s eyes. Those eyes that haunt her. Save her.

„Would you like to join me for dinner tonight?“

 

#

 

„This is the most horrendous idea.“

„I know, Sherlock.“

„Even worse than having intercourse with my brother.“

„Just shut up, will you?“

 

#

 

They are sitting in an entirely too expensive French restaurant and Joan is sure she shouldn’t feel so comfortable as she is right now. But the evening is nice, more than that, with light conversation about art, the opera and literature. Even the food, with names she didn’t even try to pronounce, is delicious and a nice change from Chinese takeout.

Moriarty charmed their waiter with her fluent French and now they’ve got a bottle of red wine at their table. „On the house, of course, _Mademoiselle_.“, Moriarty just smiled at him and touched his hand and Joan was pretty sure he would stumble over the next table with his gaze fixed on the blonde.

She can’t blame him. Moriarty _is_ stunning in her black pantsuit, her hair down, falling in soft curls over her shoulders and this disarming smile, that makes her own heart flutter.

Sherlock’s voice is still in the back of her mind, reminding her that this is _Moriarty_ , the woman with a criminal network under her thumb. The woman who could probably kill her with her bare hands. The woman who had killed to save her.

Joan takes a sip from the wine, tries to lay out a strategy in her head how she can lure some real answers from this woman.

Moriarty is studying her, since she picked her up at the brownstone in this fancy, black limousine of hers. She imagines Moriarty standing in a gallery, looking at paintings and pieces of art with that intensity in her eyes and Joan can’t decide if she likes the attention given to her. Of course the blush on her cheeks is to blame on the wine, not the smallest of compliments hidden under all that pompous speech which is so entirely natural to Moriarty.

„Your thoughts are anywhere, but here. Am I that boring to talk to, Watson?“

„Sorry, I still don’t seem to get, why you did everything you did.“, she smiles a little bit unsure, so much for luring answers out of Moriarty. The woman makes her nervous - not _afraid_ nervous, more like _excited_ nervous - and Joan knows, in the rational part of her brain, she doesn’t want to be excited in a positive way when dealing with Moriarty.

„I told you I’m drawn to things I don’t understand. And I haven’t had the chance to get to know you better, yet.“, Moriarty lets the red liquid swirl in her glass before she takes a sip. Joan catches herself staring at Moriarty’s lips, that turn into a smug smile and she quickly averts her eyes. „So we couldn’t let someone kill you, could we?“

„And when you figured everything out about me, you’re done? You just leave? Maybe fake your death again?“

Moriarty leans back and even manages to look slightly hurt. In a dramatic display she lets her right hand rest on her chest over her heart and sighs. „Why would you assume such cruel thing, Watson?“

Joan raises an eyebrow, crosses her arms over her chest. When she doesn’t say anything Moriarty drops the act and even the aloof, emotionless mask seems to slide off a little bit.

„I know, it probably doesn’t mean much, but I would never let any harm come to you, Joan.“

 _It means everything_ , she wants to say, but Joan bites on her tongue, before she drinks the rest of her wine.

 

#

 

The limousine stops in front of the brownstone, Jamie’s eyes never leaving Joan as she looks hesitant out of the darkly tinted windows.

„He is probably waiting for you to escape the hypnotic trance I casted over you.“, Joan smiles and it makes her own mouth twitch into a genuine one of the same kind. It’s easy to be honest with Watson, she has seen Jamie at some of her worst. The mask of indifference crumbles and gets fissures with every one of Joan’s small reactions. Old habits die hard though, but over the evening it became easier to show the emotions she normally hides under layers and layers of pretence.

„I’m here by my own choice and Sherlock knows this.“

„He isn’t to keen about it, I bet.“, Jamie knows how to play games with the ones she is interested in. How to move, talk, look until they are putty in her hands.

Joan Watson is different. Yes, she responds, blushes, smiles like Jamie predicts, but all this does is making Jamie herself react differently than normal. More open, more caring. Traits she thought she had buried in the last corner of her being ages ago.

„I should get going, thank you-“

„I’ll bring you to the door.“, Jamie slides past Joan and opens the door for her.

When Joan climbs out of the car, Jamie wants to pull her back. Take her to some hotel room and don’t let her go for days. Worship her, like she deserves - and maybe kill this infatuation while enjoying some closeness in this desolated world. She could and Joan wouldn’t protest too much it seems. But Jamie can see how exhausted and haunted Joan looks and she will not take advantage of that. The dark side of her mind is laughing at her, simultaneously screaming to just _take_ what she wants.

It’s only a few steps before they stand in front of the brownstone and it really shouldn’t be awkward, they are no silly teenagers after all, but Joan fumbles with her keys and it all seems like the end of a first date.

„So, thank you for this evening. It was one of the better in the last few weeks.“

Jamie reaches out, takes Joan’s fidgeting hands in her own until they stop and relax. Joan looks at her surprised, like a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide, lips apart. If she would lean into her now, Joan wouldn’t deny her the kiss she craves so badly, but Joan is fragile, shaken, ready to fall apart by the smallest of touch. So Jamie raises Joan’s hands and gently kisses her knuckles, lets her lips linger and graze over the soft skin, before she breaks the small contact.

„My pleasure. Good night, Joan Watson.“

 

 

 

 


	3. i left a love note

„Joanie, why didn’t you tell me about this? We could have been there for you, you could have stayed here!“ Mary Watson nearly lets the freshly washed teacup fall into the sink again.

Joan groans. That is exactly the reason she had held back about the incident, her mother is too caring to not be annoying and overwhelming. Yes, she had told her mother that _something_ had happened, but had been very sparse about the details of the situation she had found herself in.

„Everything is fine, mother. I’m fine, Sherlock’s fine and we’re safe.“, before the teacup can slip her mothers fingers, Joan takes it and dries it with the small towel she’s holding. „I’ve talked with my therapist a lot and work helps me to process everything.“

Joan knows that her mother wants to say more, but after staring at Joan for a few moments they do the rest of the dishes in comfortable silence.

When it’s time to leave Mary hugs her for a long time and Joan lets her. Her mother needs this, the reassurance that she is intact and doesn’t just vanish when she does so much as blink.

„Please tell that woman, I’m very grateful that she saved you. Maybe you could invite her to dinner sometime next week?“

Joan just smiles and nods. She doesn’t want to argue with her mother, especially not about Moriarty - and the complication with Sherlock’s involvement in all of this - and if she wants to meet her family.

She kisses Mary on the cheek before she steps out and heads to the next subway station. Sighing into the cool late afternoon air, Joan pulls out her phone and sighs again, rolling her eyes at her own reaction when there is no call or text she missed. Not that she is waiting for Moriarty to contact her, absolutely not, but Moriarty had said she would call when she’d arrive in her hotel in Berlin. With the time difference it should be around 10pm over there.

Joan looks over her shoulder. She feels watched, but when she is faced with too many people walking in the same direction, she just sends a quick text to Sherlock that she is on her way.

The tingling feeling doesn’t stop, though, so she activates the front camera on her phone, raising it a bit over her shoulder. The sidewalk is too crowded to really see if someone is following or watching her, but the man wearing sunglasses that towers over everyone and looks like he jumped out of a MIB movie _is_ a little bit odd.

 

#

 

„Yes?“, Watson’s voice is raspy, fogged up with well-needed sleep she so shamelessly interrupted now.

Jamie smiles to herself, sipping her tea, black with a bit of milk. She imagines Joan in her bed, sheets tangled with her barely covered legs, freckles exposed and a peaceful expression on her sculptured face.

„Did I wake you?“, Jamie knows it is 3am in New York, Joan hadn’t gone out and the brownstone is dark, it has some benefits to have men report to her 24-7. But it’s a game, a playful dance - she doesn’t want to admit that it is anything other than an inane infatuation - and Jamie knows how to dance. She’s done it before and mastered this social kind of art, her words as efficient as her weapons. The only difference now is Watson on the receiving end. Someone that can make her loose her head and do foolish things. Even as foolish as honestly caring for another person that isn’t herself.

„Didn’t you want to call when you got to your hotel?“, sounds of rustling and a quiet yawn make Jamie’s smile widen. It astounds her how simple things can place a lightness in her body these days. Not even the unpleasant meeting with the boss of an underground-network in Berlin last night had affected her mood.

„Now, Watson, be careful with your words, one could think you were concerned about my wellbeing.“

Trying to catch every small sound the phone transfers, Jamie presses it closer to her ear, her heartbeat being the only other sound she hears.

„It was just plain curiosity. You always call when you say you will, so maybe I was a little worried that your plane crashed when I didn’t hear from you.“

„My apologies. Business took a little bit longer than expected and the jet-lag made me comatose as soon as I hit the mattress last night.“, she feels good, now that she had slept, but still groggy. Hearing Joan’s voice seems to take the edge of her strained nerves, though and her tense posture softens.

„And you’re awake at, what? 8am? Shouldn’t you be sleeping?“, Joan groans, probably stretching under her sheets, and the combination of the sound and image shoots right through her, settling deep in the pit of her stomach. Jamie’s eyes close and her mind wanders to Joan, still in bed, but with less cloth to hide her body and Jamie’s hands the only thing covering Joan’s soft skin.

„Mhm, maybe if I had company I would still be in bed. Maybe if you were-“

„No, stop right there. I’m entirely too tired to even think about anything in that direction.“

„So you wouldn’t be opposed to me proposing _things_ if you are fully awake?“, grinning Jamie waits for Joan’s defense and negation, but the only thing she hears from Joan is her breathing and renewed rustling of sheets. „Tell me, Joan, do you think about me before you go to sleep?“

Jamie runs her fingers over the seam of her sweatpants on her inner thigh. She wants to hear Joan admit to it, needs to hear that Joan _wants_.

„Maybe.“

„Well, that’s a start, isn’t it, Watson?“

Joan grumbles something Jamie can’t decipher, when she drinks the rest of her tea. It is a comfortable silence between them after that. Jamie walks through her suite to one of the enormous windows, following the traces of the raindrops with her fingertips. The glass is cool against her heated skin.

„What should I call you? I don’t want to be on a surname basis when we talk like _this_.“, Joan’s voice gets drowsy and maybe Jamie feels bad for waking her at such an hour.

„Whatever you want, darling“, the glass in front of her is fogging up slightly with every exhale. She’s had many names over the years, many identities and masks, she alternated them like other people their clothes. But „Jamie.“ is the closest to her own being as it gets.

„Jamie, okay.“, it’s a two-sided sword to hear her name from Joan’s mouth, salvation and torture at once, „So, _Jamie_ , before I fall asleep, could you tell your minions to stop following me? It’s creeping me out to have some hulks watching every step of my day.“

„Darling, I just want to see you safe. Especially with me being on another continent.“

„ _Please, Jamie_.“, Joan already seems to know how she has to say her name to break something inside of her. Shattering everything and in the next instant assembling it with those small nuances in her voice that could get Jamie addicted.

„I should let you sleep, good night, Joan.“

 

#

 

It’s a beautiful day when Joan decides to run through the park in the early afternoon. They stayed up all night, trying to get their heads into this mysterious vanishing of expensive owl figurines and now after she woke up, she had the urge to move her muscles. Sherlock, of course, is awake and running on caffeine and his workout breaks. Sometimes he is still kind of a mystery to her.

Joan is pretty sure one or more of Moriarty’s, _Jamie’s_ , men are somewhere along her running routes. She shouldn’t be surprised anymore to see one of them, but it is rather odd to be watched and protected by bodyguards, henchmen - whatever they are - of a criminal mastermind. Jamie should be back next week - _„Some problems take a little bit more effort to solve, darling.“_ \- and Joan is set on telling her again, in _person_ , that this is over the top and unnecessary. If Jamie won’t listen to her over the phone, Joan will make sure that she does, when they are face to face.

The sun is warming her back, sweat making her long-sleeved shirt damp and the chilly autumn-wind cooling her cheeks. Music drains out the noises of the cars nearby and the rhythmic thud of her own feet.

Joan smiles through her exhaustion, her muscles contracting in pleasurable pain. Running always caused a high of endorphins for her - sometimes even more than some of her partners could.

The park is lively. Some dogs and their owners playing on the large fields of grass. Couples strolling hand in hand. Families with children enjoying lunch or ice-cream.

It’s a little bit too idyllic for Joan’s liking. She stops, calming her pulse with deep regular breaths and looks around, tugs the headphones from her ears and stuffs them in the pocket of her shirt. Everything seems utterly normal, a nice change from all the craziness that comes with Sherlock and their job. Not even Jamie’s bodyguard is in sight, maybe she _did_ listen to her after all.

Joan walks down the path next to the river, stretches her arms a bit and takes in the scenery. She stops in her tracks when she sees a familiar silhouette, sitting on a bench not far away from a small bridge that crosses the river.

Before Joan can go over and convince herself, that, yes, Jamie is sitting there with a sketch block in her lap, hand moving in short, fast strokes over the paper, she is stopped by a hand on her shoulder.

„Joanie?“

Joan wants to groan, loud, when she looks into the face of Carrie Dwyer.

„Hi, Carrie…“, Joan doesn’t know how to react, her eyes flitting back and forth between the woman standing next to her and Jamie.

„It’s been a while, Joanie, how have you been? Still working as a sober companion?“, Carrie’s hand slides down until it rests on Joan’s arm, thumb stroking over her biceps.

„Actually I’m a consulting detective for the NYPD. Sherlock and I are partners now.“, she’s irritated by Carrie’s behavior. Last time they saw each other they didn’t part on good terms and neither of them had tried to rekindle any kind of relationship. The warmth of Carrie’s hand on her arm is uncomfortable, so she starts walking again, Carrie falling into step beside her.

„That’s great, I guess. So you and this strange guy are _partners_?“

Joan rolls her eyes at the implication in Carrie’s voice.

Jamie is still sitting there, engrossed in her drawing, a big sun hat casting a shadow over the sketch block.

„As in we’re working together, yes.“, Joan’s steps are getting faster, she’s nearly running now. Carrie was always persistent, whether about her job or their relationship, but it is still strange that she is suddenly so interested, when they haven’t talked for a good few months.

„So you’re not seeing anyone right now?“

Jamie looks up, a smile tugging at her lips when she catches sight of Joan. She puts down her drawing, tugs the hat down and runs a hand through her golden curls. If it weren’t her goal to get rid of Carrie right now, Joan would have stopped and stared, trying to memorize every little detail of Jamie, looking like a goddess bathing in the sun.

„Maybe we could get some drinks tonight, for the sake of our past?“

Joan doesn’t answer and without hesitating she throws her arms around Jamie’s neck, pinning her against the backrest of the bench. Jamie stiffens.

„Watson, what-“

„Please, just roll with it.“, Joan whispers, before she raises her voice again, „Hey, baby, I missed you so much, I’m glad you’re finally back!“

„Hello to you, too, _darling_.“, to emphasize her words Jamie nuzzles her neck and sighs happily, her hands caressing Joan’s sides.

Joan inhales deeply and has to suppress a very real sigh of her own. Jamie’s warmth is enveloping her, her scent invading her senses - fresh, aromatic, patchouli perhaps - and Joan finds herself in a situation where she doesn’t want to let go so soon.

Leaning back, she is confronted with Jamie looking at her like she is the most important person in the world. Joan has to remind herself that they are acting before she says or does something she shouldn’t.

Jamie stands up, untangles Joan’s arms from her neck and pulls her into her side instead. „Dear, you should have said someone is joining us today. I’m not properly dressed to officially meet your friends.“

In plain jeans and a white button-up shirt Jamie still looks absolutely gorgeous Joan thinks and Carries seems to agree, if her mesmerized look at the blonde is any indication.

„This is Carrie, an old friend. I ran into her on my way to you.“

Jamie offers her free hand. „Jamie, nice to make your acquaintance.“

Joan is startled that Jamie didn’t use any alias, but doesn’t dare to let her act slide now.

Carrie blinks a few times before she shakes Jamie’s hand. „Yeah, nice, really nice to meet you.“, one hand runs through her messy ponytail and she shuffles on her feet uncomfortably, „And I should get going. I’m already late for… something. It was wonderful to see you again, Joanie.“

Raising her hand Joan waves when Carrie is jogging back the way they came, a sigh of relief escaping her lips she leans more into Jamie.

„So… Joanie?“, Jamie laughs and it’s such a rare occurrence Joan doesn’t punch her in the ribs, for using that horrible nickname that stuck with her since childhood.

„Oh, hush.“, Joan lets go, tries to get some distance between them and straightens her ponytail, „Thank you, by the way, I seem to have a sign on me that says _Open For Ex-Partners_ or something. But that’s not important right now, shouldn’t you still be in Germany?“

„I wanted to surprise you.“, she gathers her hat and her art utensils, before she motions for Joan to walk with her, „I assumed you would be a little bit more delighted to see me, Watson.“

Joan rolls her eyes, Jamie doesn’t need to know that she had kind of missed her. Their brunch meetings, the strolls through art galleries and sometimes just walking through the streets of New York had Joan accustomed to Jamie’s presence.

It’s a peaceful walk, both of them enjoying the company of the other, no words needed until they stand in front of the brownstone.

„Hopefully I won’t be out of town until next month. I could get tickets for the new rendition of _The Belle of Amherst_ , if you would be interested.“, Jamie smiles and that is all it takes for Joan’s heart to skip a beat.

„I would like that.“, before Joan can bid her goodbye, she remembers the topic she wanted to approach with Jamie, „Oh, as much as I appreciate your concern about my safety, the bodyguards really weren't necessary. Especially after I asked you to call them off.“

„Watson, I-“

Before Jamie can repeat her reasons for her doing, Joan steps closer and leans in, pressing a kiss to her cheek, slightly grazing the corner of Jamie’s mouth with her lips.

„It was a nice thought, though, thank you.“

Joan bites her lip and doesn’t wait for a response. Before she closes the door of the brownstone she takes a last look at Jamie standing at the foot of the stairs, speechless, fingertips on her cheek and a small smile on her lips.

 


	4. thrill of the rush

Jamie crosses her legs, leaning back into the heavy leather chair. Ten minutes into it the meeting is already annoying her, making her thoughts drift, while some minor smuggler from her partner syndicate tries to puff his chest out with the last deals that hadn’t been blown up by the police.

Under normal circumstances she would never show up at this kind of lower gatherings, but since there had been more and more heists that hand’t gone well, Jamie herself had to find the weak link. Of course none of those in the room, know who she is, not even her personal bodyguard, who’s standing next to the door on the other side of the room.

Jamie, playing the assistant of the third in command in _Moriarty’s_ imperium, twirls one golden lock around her finger, smiling bashfully at the man who is still talking. For a moment he stumbles over his words and, mentally, Jamie is already pointing the gun, that’s hidden in a leg holster on the inside of her right thigh, at his head.

With the appearance and behavior of a naive blonde secretary, she can’t just wield her weapon around and-or threaten them until they tell her what she wants to know. This time Jamie needs to subtly work her way through the ranks, the trust in those who receive the direct orders from her very sparse these last weeks. Even some of her oldest employees needed to be replaced, because of _unhealthy_ connections to people who want to see Moriarty dead.

After all of them completed their reports, she dismisses them with warnings wrapped in nice words and pleasantries and bats her eyelashes a few more times excessively.

She sighs, her mask dropping for a moment when she is alone in the room, her bodyguard already waiting in the hallway. Massaging her temple with her fingertips, Jamie glances on her phone, a fleeting smile crossing her lips, when she sees that Joan sent an affirmative message for their meeting at a gallery’s surrealism art exhibition next Saturday. Typing out and sending a response to call later that evening, she walks out of the room, careless for a fleeting moment. She reacts too late when she hears the far too familiar sound of a trigger being pulled.

 

#

 

„Watson, your pacing is interrupting my train of thought, would you mind running in circles in another room?“

Joan glares at Sherlock, huffing and throwing her arms up. „I’m sorry I distract you from your tortoise labyrinth experiment.“

She storms out of the room, leaving Sherlock with Clyde and his idea of training the little tortoise. In her bedroom Joan throws her cellphone on the bed, making noises of frustration. Jamie hadn’t called in two days and that is going on her nerve to a point that makes her snappy. It isn’t like Jamie to not contact her in some way, especially not when she says she would. Not even her henchmen are around - though Joan is at fault for that herself - and just vanishing from the face of earth without so much as a note? Joan can’t believe, doesn't _want_ to believe Jamie would just drop out of her life like that.

It’s not like Sherlock hasn’t warned her again and again over the last months. To be cautious. To keep her trust level at a minimum. Foolish enough Joan thought she had done all that. But now, with Jamie suddenly gone, the loss hurts, like a bitch.

„Shit.“, she presses the heels of her palms into her eyes, trying to stop the tears from falling.

Looking over to the bedside drawer she sees the book Jamie had given her after their last get-together. An anthology of poems, something so utterly normal and kind of romantic, Joan had been thrown off guard. Thumping through the pages only at night - yes, Joan needed the protection of the dark and sleeping town to let herself fall into this part of Jamie’s soul - she had read the poems marked with scribbled notes on the side first. Just a simple word, a name of a painting, or whole thought out interpretations that filled the blank spaces on the page.

Joan’s thoughts are interrupted by the ringing of her phone, making her jump on the spot before she lunges forward, onto her bed to pluck the phone from between her two blankets.

The display shows the number of the hospital, one of the numbers she still has on speed dial. She frowns when she presses the green button on the display, her heart thumping rapidly in her chest. „Watson?“

„Hey, Joanie, it’s me. Carrie.“, the voice comes muffled through the speaker, „I probably get into trouble if they notice me calling you, but there came a patient in today.“

„What does this have to do with me?“, Joan pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to calm her temper.

„Well, this patient is the woman I saw you with the other day. Jamie, right?“

Joan’s heart drops and she nods, forgetting that Carrie can't see her.

„But this woman has a completely different name. I don’t know, but I could swear she is your Jamie.“

„Is-? What-?“, stumbling over her own words, Joan runs a hand over her face and through her hair, „Ugh, fuck, I’m on my way.“

„Just ask for me, or if I’m busy ask for the patient Rita Mory.“

Throwing the phone into her purse when she disconnects, Joan lets out a little laugh. _Rita Mory_ , of course Jamie would use something that could tip off her or Sherlock. Quickly she rushes out of the brownstone, only shouting sparse information at Sherlock - she will message him as soon as she knows what is going on - and jumps in front of the first cab.

 

#

 

Joan struts through the hallways on the second floor of the hospital - orthopedic unit. The woman at the reception couldn’t tell her what exactly had happened to _Rita_ , but she should be in her room, waking up from the surgery.

She tries to keep her head down, she doesn’t want to draw too much attention to Jamie’s case by running into a former resident or colleague. It’s bad enough that Carrie had recognized her.

With a little sigh of relief she sees the room number she is looking for and after a knock enters it.

The curtains closed, the room is kept dark, a little bedside lamp being the only source of light.

Jamie occupies the only bed in this room, her right arm in a sling, IV infusion in her left. Blonde curls are spread over the white pillow. Her face, relaxed by the medication induced sleep, looks almost childlike. So innocent, no hint of the masks she wears almost every moment of her life.

Joan steps closer, carefully trying to be as quiet as possible, cursing under her breath for wearing high heeled shoes. Her eyes never leave Jamie, tracing her bend arm, up to her shoulder, covered by the simple white-blue hospital gown.

With a still proficient move, Joan grabs the patient record at the foot of the bed, scanning it quickly. Two bullet wounds. Clear shots through right shoulder and biceps. Several nerve and muscle damage. A lot of blood loss. Joan is sure Jamie stayed away from the hospital as long as she could.

„You are such an idiot. A thickheaded, arrogant idiot. Even worse than Sherlock, you know that?“, she hangs the record back to the bed, running her hands over her face, taking a shaky breath.

The door opens and shuts quietly, Carrie slipping into the room.

„Hey.“, Carrie has a reserved smile on her lips. Joan knows it is always hard to deal with dependents, especially if they’ve got a medical background.

A bit hesitant Joan envelops Carrie in a hug. „Thank you for calling me.“

„No problem at all.“, putting a bit space between them, Carrie buries her hands in the pockets of her lab coat. „So, I was right? This is Jamie?“

Joan nods, pulling one of the uncomfortable looking chairs closer to the bed on Jamie’s left side, sits down and takes Jamie’s hand with both of hers.

„She will be okay with a few months of physiotherapy. Our surgeons did a splendid job. There will be no loss of function or limitation of movement in her right arm.“

Releasing a deep breath, a small smile tugs at the corners of Joan’s lips. „Good. She is an artist. Though I bet she is ambidextrous, she would hate being handicapped. I’m pretty sure she will drive her physiotherapist insane.“

„I can recommend you a skilled guy. He’s not working here, but it won’t be much of a way from your apartment or the brownstone.“, Carrie shuffles around, probably tensing and relaxing her fists in the pockets of her coat. Joan knows her habits from years of friend- and relationship, though it doesn’t take her knowledge to see Carrie’s discomfort. „Could you just answer some questions for me?“

„Sure.“

„Why didn’t you know she was here? Do you know who shot her? And what is it with this different name?“

„It’s complicated. No. It’s complicated.“, Joan squeezes Jamie’s hand, running her thumbs over the soft skin. „I would tell you more if I could, but it’s best for you if you only have a minimum of knowledge about this.“, she holds up one hand to silence Carrie’s attempt to butt in. „Really, I appreciate that you called me and kept it to yourself, but… I just don’t want you to get absorbed into this mess and risk seeing you getting hurt.“

„Joanie, I’m worried about you. Just because we’re not together anymore, doesn’t mean I stopped caring.“, Carrie’s voice rises, „Are you at risk of getting shot, too?“

„Carrie, I work with the NYPD, there is always a risk. I’m well aware of this. Hell, there are worse things than being shot.“, Joan looks at Jamie’s features, wishing for her eyes to open. For her self-confident smirk to curl the corners of her mouth upwards, and inappropriate words to fall from her lips.

„If this woman puts you in any danger, I swear-“

„Stop it, Carrie. I appreciate everything you’ve done and your concern about my wellbeing, but you don’t know a thing about my life anymore. And you really don’t want to know a thing about hers.“

„Fine.“, with a disapproving grunt, the door falls shut behind Carrie.

The room falling silent, except the whirring and beeping of the machines. Joan rests her elbows on the mattress, letting her lips skim over the back of Jamie’s hand and every knuckle of her fingers. She thinks she sees a small smile appear on Jamie’s lips.

 

#

 

„All of this causes a strange feeling of déjà vu.“, Joan wraps her arms around her upper body against the chilly temperature of the room.

„Strange isn’t the word I’d see fit, Watson. Disturbing, unsettling, troublesome. All of them are a better description of this situation.“, Sherlock hands her one of the plastic cups he brought with him, sitting down on the other chair in the room opposite of the bed.

„Right, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.“, she takes a sip, enjoying the bitter taste of the coffee, avoids to look at Sherlock. She knows his expression is one of distrust and disgust. The last time they had been in this constellation inside of a hospital it had been Irene lying in the bed, fooling them all.

With everything that had happened the last months it seems so surreal. Especially now, with her own blurry emotions involved more than she would ever confess, and not the concern about Sherlock spurring her on with anger, to solve this woman, to make her pay for what she’d done to him.

And now everything is different.

She lets her eyes linger on Jamie’s relaxed features and sees a woman she cares for. Not the sociopath she knows Jamie can be.

„I’m an idiot.“, Joan sighs into the cup, before she drinks the rest of the coffee.

„No, but your choice in partners leaves something to be desired.“

„You don’t have to stay here, I’ll just take a quick shower.“, motioning with her head out of the room she slowly rises from her chair, untangling her fingers from Jamie’s.

„I won’t leave her unobserved. Who knows with what powers she messed to deserve these wounds. You go refresh yourself, I won’t harm her.“ Joan watches him for a moment, Sherlock of course doesn’t even blink under her gaze. At least he doesn’t seem to have his single stick with him, and when he gives her a small nod, before taking a sip from his coffee, she hurries out of the room. She really doesn't want to leave them alone too long, though she isn’t sure whom of them she is more worried about.

 

#

 

She feels herself startling awake, when a light, pointy object grazes her cheek. The nightmare still lingering in her consciousness, Jamie needs a moment to fully get to her senses.

Trying to sit up, Jamie groans, her neck stiff and the muscles in her right arm shooting flashes of pain from the tip of her fingers up to her shoulder.

„Finally.“

Her gaze snaps up to the figure sitting in the shadows, eyes slowly adjusting to the different shades of light, on the other side of the room.

„I was running out of paper to throw at you and you looked rather distressed, tossing and turning for the last five minutes.“

„Sherlock.“, taking in her situation she scans the IV and heart monitor to her left, tries to move her right arm, only to be stopped by the medical restriction and the numbing pain, „What a delightful surprise to wake up to.“

„Always a pleasure, though I’m not here to entertain you. I’m merely interested in the informations you have.“, his eyes never leave her, suspicion and alertness written all over his features, „Antonio Pérez. A lieutenant of the smuggler cartel that was seen at the place of your shooting. And yes, Captain Gregson and Detective Bell are already aware of the coups that are planned, thanks to some minion who began to talk very fast after they had offered him a deal.“

Jamie just stares at Sherlock, a turmoil of emotions trying to disrupt the mask of indifference. Of course both, Sherlock and Joan, are aware that she didn’t stop her line of work, but sometimes it still amazes her how fast Sherlock can act on his deductions. Still, this small part of the web that is her empire is just a minor sacrifice. She will deal with the aftermaths of this incident when her arm is fully healed.

 

#

 

Joan stops in front of the room, hand already on the handle, when she hears the voices of Sherlock an Jamie. A sigh of relief escapes her.

Jamie is awake. And from the sound of it already arguing with Sherlock. Something she never thought she would be happy to hear.

With a small smile on her lips Joan opens the door and steps into the room.

„Don’t insult me, Sherlock, and compare me to your imbecilic brother.“, Jamie’s voice lets the temperature drop and a shiver run down Joan’s spine, the air thick with underlying aggression and tension.

They both turn to her. Sherlock, mouth open to respond to Jamie, stops himself uncharacteristically and just looks at her. Jamie’s lips curl into an overly happy smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She wants to provoke Sherlock, Joan is sure, and she almost wants to turn around immediately and leave again. Let the children play their game, until one of them leaves crying, because the other was too mean.

„Are you both done, or do I need to leave?“, she crosses her arms in front of her chest, her gaze switching back and forth between the two idiots who are too much alike for their own good.

„No, but I’ll bid my farewell now. Captain Gregson called. I’ll let you know, when I need your assistance, Watson.“

He mutters a _be careful_ when he passes her, and before Joan can respond she is alone with a smug grinning Jamie.

„Is this really necessary? I know Sherlock’s and your past, but can’t you two sit in the same room and not jump each other’s throats?“

Joan sits down in the chair next to the bed again, looking Jamie up and down. The blonde is still pale, looks exhausted, like she has been on her feet for three days straight. Beautiful blue eyes not as sharp and alert as Joan knows them to be.

„He started it.“, Jamie shrugs and lies down, shifting until she is comfortable on her back, face only showing a second of pain, when she strains her wounded shoulder.

„Are you serious right now?“

„No, darling, you just looked like you were interacting with toddlers and I wanted to adapt that notion for a second.“

Joan rolls her eyes.

„To sooth your agitated nerves, Sherlock behaved himself. He could have easily told Captain Gregson about my involvement with certain subjects, but he chose not to. In exchange for some tidbits of information.“

„Do I even want to know?“, Joan wants to take Jamie’s hand that’s resting above the blanket, but with Jamie being awake she hesitates.

„Probably not, darling. I wouldn’t want to ruin your evening.“, Jamie’s eyelids drop and her voice begins to slur, the exhaustion and the medication taking over.

Joan smiles fondly and, without another second thought, she takes Jamie’s hand after all and raises it to her lips to place a kiss on the soft skin of her palm. „Sweet dreams.“

 

 

 


	5. we can paint the town in blue

Two weeks out of the hospital and four into physiotherapy Jamie is on edge with her patience. Not only does her art work pile up steadily - galleries are calling her at least thrice a day now - but before the arresting of her little smuggler companions, Antonio Pérez had vanished. Sherlock is frustrated, as is Jamie herself, her, still wounded, right arm itching to thrust a gun against Pérez’ temple and penetrate his brain with a bullet.

He must have left the country, or had already been killed by someone else. Neither Sherlock, nor Jamie’s contacts can find him and Jamie’s mood gets worse with every hour that passes without a notification about his where-beings.

And now the physiotherapist, Joan’s ex had recommended, has the nerve to tell her to take it slow and not to try and force the healing process. Jamie wants to use the medical sling around her arm and shoulder to strangle some sense into him.

She shoves the door to his office open with a little bit more force than necessary and steps out into the midday sun. Her driver is already waiting, driving in the direction of the brownstone as soon as she slides into the backseat of the black limousine.

Jamie needs something to get her mind off for a few moments. Months ago she would have gone into a bar and fucked the first willing participant that appealed to her taste. A night full of hate and anger fueled sex always calmed her for a few days and, more often than not, she had taken care of the problem before her anger had risen again.

Even though she would love to get Joan Watson into one of her beds at some point - in the near future - this is not what Jamie has in mind for them today.

Joan is already waiting, sporting the clothes Jamie had informed her to wear.

 

„Good day, darling.“, Joan slides into the seat across from her, lips curled into a small smile, „Splendid afternoon, isn’t it?“

„Indeed. If you weren’t injured, I would have invited you for a jog in the park.“, tugging at the hem of her white tank top, a faint blush spreads on her already sun heated skin, „So, what’s the deal with this choice of clothes?“

Jamie lets her eyes travel over Joan’s body, completely clad in white fabric. Perfect.

„A reason other than you looking absolutely ravishing in white?“, Jamie chuckles when Joan rolls her eyes at her, „Just a little art project, I think you will very much enjoy, darling.“

 

#

 

Joan is not surprised to see herself surrounded by different art pieces when they enter Jamie’s apartment - one of many Joan assumes. The open loft reminds her of Jamie’s imprisonment with its minimalistic furniture and paint, brushes and other utensils scattered across the wooden floor.

With a sigh of relief she notices that none of the canvases shows her own face in a much too big dimension. Joan still doesn’t know what to think of that portrait, despite their growing relationship - and her fondness of Jamie’s company, though Joan knows the criminal is always present behind the mask of peace.

 

„I will change into something more fitting, you can start without me if you want to.“

„Start with what?“, Joan shoves her hands in the back pockets of her white jeans, avoiding to look at her, when Jamie begins to unbutton her shirt.

„I’ve been on edge for the last couple of days, all thanks to the nuisance that is my physiotherapist, so I thought I could let go of that tension for a few peaceful moments. With you.“, Jamie shrugs off her shirt, with a bit difficulty due to the medical sling still holding her arm in place, folding it neatly over her arm. „The blank wall over there needs a new look. So, take every color you want and just…“, her lips curl up into a smirk, voice dropping to a purr, „go wild. I’ll join you in a minute.“

„I thought you didn’t do originals?"

„I don’t.“

Joan watches Jamie walk across the room, pretty sure Jamie's rolling her hips a little bit more than usual, before she enters the adjoined room. Confused she shakes her head, before turning to the empty wall to her right.

She had never been the artistic type, her hands able to cut a perfect straight line with a scalpel, but useless as soon as she tried to put a picture onto paper, or canvas for that matter.

Eyeing the closed paint buckets, Joan hesitates for a few moments, before she steps closer, kneels down and opens one of them to find a bright yellow liquid.

Arranging her loose hair into a messy bun, she opens more of the buckets and places them closer to the wall, grabbing all kinds of different brushes. She puts down all of them, except one of the big, broad ones and dips it into the blue liquid. Still hesitating, Joan raises the brush, takes a deep breath and lets it glide over the smooth surface of the wall, her arm making a wide swing, leaving a bright blue stripe in its wake.

She stares at it for a moment, unsure if this is what Jamie wants, the perfectionist in her not at all satisfied, so she guides the brush again and again over the wall, until the blue starts to fade with every new brushstroke. Unruly shapes, waves, circles, edges are coming to life in front of her. A smile spreads on Joan’s lips as she dips into the green color, and then another and another and just lets her arm roam freely, not caring that her white sneakers and trousers are already splattered with a bright spectrum of paint.

„Enjoying yourself, darling?“, Jamie’s voice is close, and now that her concentration is broken she can sense Jamie at her back, the warmth radiating off her.

Joan nods, looking down at herself, the mess that are her clothes, „You shouldn’t come to close, I wouldn’t want to ruin your designer clothes.“ Instead of answering Jamie wraps her left arm around Joan’s middle, pulling her against her front.

„Would you help me out of my restraint? I’d like to be able to use both hands.“

„Your arm is not fully healed yet.“, Joan tries to calm her breathing, feels Jamie’s fingers splayed on her stomach, Jamie’s whole body against her back.

„But I’ve got a competent physician right here with me. I’m sure you will take splendid care of me, Dr. Watson.“, she can feel Jamie’s smirk against the skin of her neck. Joan sighs, clothes her eyes for a second before she turns in Jamie’s arm to face her.

„Fine, but if you feel even slightly uncomfortable the sling comes on again.“

Jamie steps back a bit, her hand still lingering on Joan’s side and teasing the hem of Joan’s tanktop, fingertips barely touching the heated skin underneath. Also clad in white, Jamie could look like an angel, if it weren’t for her triumphant grin, when Joan starts to undo the sling that keeps Jamie’s right arm in place.

Carefully massaging her biceps, when Joan puts the sling not too far away, Jamie eyes the wall and hums. „A good start.“

Without looking at Joan again, Jamie grabs one of the already used brushes, dips it into the black paint and gives the creation a few more edges, curves, a whole new shape with just a few strokes.

„I was always fascinated with the female body, its softness and strength combined in a beauty you can barely catch on a canvas.“

Joan joins her again, following Jamie’s movement with her gaze, seeing a woman come to life on the wall. „Still you tried.“

„And failed. I couldn’t catch the fire that lights up your eyes when you - infuriated, annoyed, lust-driven - look at me.“

Feeling the blush on her cheeks, Joan rubs her paint covered hands on her pants, smearing the different colors onto her thighs. Of course Jamie had seen the way Joan looks at her throughout their time together, but speaking of it so bluntly throws Joan off for a second. Eyes fixated on the wall Joan dips her fingers into the red paint and begins to use her hand instead of a brush, eliciting a chuckle from Jamie.

But a moment later, Jamie lets the brush rest, too, her fingers soon covered in all kinds of colors. Joan’s smile widens, when she sees Jamie’s relaxed features and the childlike joy that flickers in her eyes for a few seconds, before it is replaced with the concentration of the practiced artist.

Joan, focussed on what her hands are creating, only notices Jamie’s absence at her side, when she feels Jamie’s arms slip around her waist, and Jamie’s hands covering her tanktop in imprints with the rest of the paint on them. When Jamie steps back again, Joan wants to turn around, but is held in place, by a gentle touch to the small of her back.

„Stay, please. Wouldn’t want to let this canvas go to waste, would we?“, Jamie leaves a small kiss on Joan’s shoulder, before she dips her hands again into the colored liquids.

Joan feels Jamie’s gaze on her, but doesn’t dare move, only flinching a bit, when Jamie’s cold fingertips touch her bare arms, spreading the paint all over Joan’s skin.

Those hands, that can as easily and gracefully handle a weapon as they can a paint-brush, are roaming over Joan’s body, leaving Joan a shuddering mess. Her breath hitches, when Jamie cups her breasts for a second, her hands slowly moving further up, fingertips tracing the line of her neck to her jaw.

Joan curses under her breath, wanting to look into Jamie’s eyes, needing to see the want, the need, just as much as to let her hands wander, explore and paint Jamie in her own colors. So she turns, Jamie’s fingertips brushing over her skin at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, while Joan’s hands hover at Jamie’s sides, reluctant at first, before she leaves the first colorful imprints on Jamie’s top.

Jamie’s eyes are dilated, when Joan finally looks up from the path her hands are taking, the iris’ only small rings of blue around her pupils. Joan’s fingers curl around the straps of Jamie’s top, the skin she touches soft against her knuckles. Another panted breath and she tugs slightly, until their foreheads touch.

She never imagined herself being in such an intimate situation with _Jamie Moriarty_ of all people, but, as much as the logical part of her brain wants her to stop, the rest of her being _needs_.

Needs to lean in, and give into the tension that is building between them for weeks now.

Joan’s fingertips caress Jamie’s shoulders, traveling up her neck, to cup her jaw, relishing in the little purr of pleasure that comes from Jamie.

It is only a hair's breadth between them, Joan tipping her head and leaning in to connect-

Jamie’s phone rings.

 

 

 


	6. love you just a little too much

Joan can still feel her lips tingling from an almost touch, when Jamie steps away and pulls the phone out of the back pocket of her trousers, leaving small colorful fingerprints on the plastic of the rather old looking device.

“What is it?“ Jamie’s voice is harsh, but as soon as the caller begins to talk all emotions fall from her face.

A curse on her tongue, Joan tries to hide her disappointment. The woman she was nearly kissing a few moments ago has left the room, _Moriarty_ is now standing in front of her. All business and far too collected for what was just about to happen.

The paint on her arms, hands and neck begins to dry and itch. With a last glance at _Moriarty_ Joan walks to the door Jamie had gone through, when she went to change her clothes.

She finds a bedroom, ignores the urge to _look_ and take in every detail and crosses it with fast steps to the only other door. Careful Joan lets her hand glide over the wall and presses the light switch when she touches it. The light is cold, reminds her of the hospital and makes her shiver.

A blush is still tinting her cheeks when she looks into the mirror over the sink.

Turning on the faucets she doesn’t wait for the water to turn warmer, instead rubbing off the paint from her arms with her wet hands. Soon it’s a rainbow that colors the porcelain of the sink until it mixes to an indistinguishable brown rivulet.

Joan’s mind runs, screams. Clawing at every emotional part it can find, like her fingers are now at her neck, trying to get the damned paint and the imprints of Jamie’s touch to stop from lingering on her skin.

She can hear Jamie’s voice, and it frustrates her how it still feels like a caress, despite the topic of conversation Joan can only _guess_ to be work related - criminal work, murderous work.

Joan sighs, she needs to get out of here, and into the next cab to get to the brownstone.

Not caring that she is probably ruining some good towels, she grabs one from a rack next to the sink, and rubs on her neck and arms until her skin is at least dry, if not completely paint free.

One deep breath, two, three, her pulse is still racing, and Joan wants to curse her own body for reacting the way it does.

Throwing the towel back onto the rack Joan leaves the bathroom, barely catching the end of the phone conversation.

Jamie is looking at her phone, thumb hovering over a button, a mask of anger and annoyance furrowing the soft features from mere minutes ago. An expression so different from the indifference, it feels like she could have a gun pressed against her temple any second if she does something to upset.

“I’m leaving.”

A heartbeat and Jamie stashes away the phone in the back pocket of her now colorful pants. Joan tries to ignore the flutter in her stomach when she traces the trail of her own marks and fingerprints on Jamie’s clothes and bare skin with her eyes.

For a moment Jamie just stares at her, a second of confusion, until that familiar, calm and clinical expression takes over her features. “Of course. I’ll call for my driver.”

“That won’t be necessary, I’ll take a cab.” Joan turns before _anything_ is able to pull her into this vortex of madness again. But she stops, hand on the front door. “Was this call about Pérez?”

“Yes.” Jamie has her right arm cradled to her stomach, left hand massaging her biceps. Joan knew it would be too early to stress the muscle that much.

“Did you order to kill him?”

She sees Jamie’s throat bob as she swallows, fingertips still working over the pink scar. “ _I gave order_ to let my people handle him.”

Joan nods, steps out of the apartment and closes the door behind her. 

 

#

 

“You’re back early, Watson.” Sherlock, wearing his beekeeper suit, is carefully inspecting one of the brood bodies, before he slides it into the hive again.

Joan watches the procedure, enjoying the familiarity of the quiet buzzing sound and just being on the roof with Sherlock.

She doesn’t respond to his statement, and after he looked her up and down, taking in the still very much paint splattered clothes with a raised eyebrow, Joan doesn’t feel like talking.

If she starts this conversation she knows she will be honest, about feelings she doesn’t want to voice, especially not to _him_ about _her_.

Joan pulls the hairband out and runs a hand through her hair, massaging her scalp and looks over the buildings of New York, and the busy people scurrying like ants on the sidewalks and the streets.

 

* * *

 

 

Pérez is on his knees, hunched over, a very bruised, bloody face hidden by a simple burlap bag.

“What do you want us to do?” One of the men asks, and kicks Pérez into his side. The hunters are not her favorite associates, but they get the job done, even if she has to shower for an hour to get their stench out of her system afterwards.

Jamie walks around them, one of her disposable phones in a glove clad hand, a message already typed.

“He will be collected shortly. Make sure he stays alive, I will know if he doesn’t.” She sends the message and throws the phone over the edge of the pier into the harbor.

They’ve got at least half an hour. Jamie crouches down beside Pérez, tutting, when he struggles against the rope around his wrists.

“Now, darling, since I’ve already arranged your departure, how about I’ll grace you with another gift? One that should be to your liking, since you seem so fond of bullet wounds.”

One of the hunters gives her an unregistered gun, and without much further ado Jamie presses the muzzle against the side of his knee.

A satisfied smile spreads on her lips.

She shoots, relishing in his scream and the pain from the recoil that spreads through her biceps and makes the scar itch.

 

* * *

 

 

“Watson! We are needed at the police station!”

Joan almost falls out of her bed when Sherlock storms rather loudly into her room. Her eyes blink open, but before she can process anything clothes are already thrown over her face.

“Get dressed, Antonio Pérez was imprisoned two hours ago, and Captain Gregson asked for our presence at his questioning.”

“Wha-“

“Hurry up, Watson.”

And downstairs he is again. Joan groans, while she shuffles out of her sleep shirt and shorts, and almost stumbles while wiggling into black tights and the rest of her outfit.

It doesn’t take her much longer to get ready, and in less than forty minutes they’re at the station and watch as Marcus interrogates Pérez.

“He looks like he was hit by truck. How is he even able to sit here right now?”

“The doctors gave their okay for the interrogation, as long as we keep it short and watch the compressor around his thigh.” Captain Gregson motions with a nod of his head. “He got shot in the knee, very professional, nothing big was damaged, but it sure as hell hurts a lot.”

“He’s stable enough, the medics made sure of it, and his informations are very time sensitive.” Sherlock rubs his chin, and after a motion of Marcus’ hand, joins him in the interrogation room.

Joan pulls her phone out of her purse, unlocks it with a swipe of her thumb and opens her contacts. She hovers over Jamie’s name, the urge to call her overwhelming.

Jamie didn’t kill Pérez, like Joan expected, and it throws her mind into a vortex of what ifs and maybes. But instead of calling, she opens a message and types with fast fingers.

**_\- You didn’t kill him._ **

 

**_#_ **

 

She is running. Her muscles contracting and relaxing, the stretch and stress of every step a sweet exhaustion.

It’s been two weeks since Pérez, battered and bruised, has been arrested. _An anonymous tip_ , Gregson said.

Jamie hadn’t called or texted, which dampened the celebratory vibe that Sherlock radiated - for Joan anyway.

Sweat is running down her temple, and her black shirt clings to her shoulder blades. Joan doesn’t know how to feel, and that is the most frustrating part about this whole _affair_.

As much as she wants to, she can’t divide the world into good and bad, black and white anymore. Not with Sherlock’s actions, or Jamie’s, not even with her own.  
But falling for a murderess? For someone who has an imperium, a whole criminal network under her thumb?

The sound of her steps changes when she takes a turn to run through the park, soles hitting hard earth now instead of the stone slabs of the sidewalk. It is rather early, after a night of just tossing and turning, only a few other people walking their dogs and sharing the calmness of the morning.

Running a familiar route gives Joan the space for her mind to tumble over every other thought of Jamie, herself, and Jamie _and_ herself.

Joan shakes her head.

And rounding a corner to head back to the brownstone she stops. Because _of course_ Jamie sits on a bench not far away from where Joan is now rooted to the spot, heartbeat and breathing trying to outrace each other.

For a few silent moments they just stare at each other.

Jamie’s legs are crossed and her hands are buried in a tailored, expensive looking brown jacket that reaches mid thigh over black slacks. She looks out of place in this created sanctum of nature, and still so comfortable in the small space she created for herself on that bench, Joan has the urge to take a picture and capture this moment. But her arms hang limp at her sides, hands curled into fists, clenching and unclenching while her nails are digging into her palms.

Jamie is the first to break their standstill, rising to her feet and smoothes out inexistent wrinkles on the right sleeve of her jacket, before her hands vanish in the pockets again. Slowly, every step thought through it seems, Jamie walks up to Joan until they’re only a feet apart.

Joan is still trying to calm her body from the prior exercise, but with Jamie in touching distance, and the scent of Jamie’s perfume tickling her nose, neither her heart nor her lungs want to slow down.

A drop of sweat is running down her spine, and with Jamie looking at her so intensely Joan feels herself a mess in her damp running clothes.

“How is your arm?” Joan breaks the silence with the first coherent thing that comes to mind, staying on a safe topic - for now.

“It doesn’t hinder me in my day to day activities. Of course the occasional stiffness of the muscle is bothersome at times.” Jamie rubs over the wounded biceps with the fingers of her left hand to emphasize her words. “If you’d like to still your curiosity though, you can always examine my arm yourself.”

“I trust your physiotherapist.” Joan licks her lips, and tries not to stare when Jamie mirrors the motion. “But, old habits and such.” ** _  
_**

 

#

 

The hotel room - or better _suite_ \- can rival most of Joan’s apartments she has lived in. Feeling out of place is putting it mildly, especially with the look the receptionist gave her when he took in her running outfit, but one of Jamie’s credit cards had placated him fast enough.

“If you’d like you can use the shower, I’ll arrange for a change of clothes.” Jamie sits down on a black leather couch, shedding the jacket and draping it over the armrest. She’s wearing a white tanktop underneath, and Joan’s mind flashes back to their painting session. When her fingers had curled around the thin straps of fabric and…

Joan follows Jamie and sits down next to her.

The wound on Jamie’s biceps has healed well, the scarred skin mostly pink already. Careful Joan curls her hands around Jamie’s arm and works her thumbs over the stiff muscle that starts to twitch under her touch.

Joan knows this should be about making sure that Jamie’s arm has fully recovered, but soon her fingers are caressing instead of clinically examining, and her gaze drifts to Jamie’s neck, her throat, down to her collarbones.

A heartbeat, two, before Joan looks up to see Jamie’s pupils blown, intently watching her.

“Maybe you should join me in the shower.” Joan’s breath hitches mid-sentence, making her almost stumble over her words.

“Maybe I should.”

And Joan doesn’t know who closes the distance between them, but suddenly, _finally_ , they are kissing. Warm, and much softer than she’d imagined it would be, and Jamie’s hands are at the base of her neck, fingertips pressing into her skin and pulling Joan closer.

It doesn’t stay gentle for long. After the first careful nudges of lips Joan bites down on Jamie’s bottom lip, eliciting a purr of approval and the slide of Jamie’s tongue against her own.

Hands are pulling and tugging at clothes, and soon they’re both stumbling from the couch and into the bathroom, shedding every article of clothing on their way.

The water is cold against her overheated naked skin when Joan steps under the spray of the shower, but not a second passes before Jamie’s body is flush against her own and Jamie’s warmth envelops her, teeth and tongue and fingertips quickly mapping out every inch of wet skin.

It’s desperate and rough, and they feed off each other’s need, urging pleasurable height after height, until they’re quivering, spiking arousal and exhaustion wreaking havoc on their muscles.

Joan doesn’t know how they end up in the queen sized bed. Her brain barely able to process the marks all over her body, her kiss bruised lips and Jamie’s breath puffing against them, erratic like her own when they lay entangled underneath the duvet.

 

#

 

Jamie is lounging on the couch only wearing a satin bathrobe she didn’t even bother to tie up. Concentrating on dressing herself is hard when Joan can see all the bite marks she left on Jamie’s breasts and stomach, but somehow she manages to get into the pair of jeans - one of the hotel employees had brought with the rest of her outfit - without stumbling.

She stuffs her keys and phone into the pockets of her pants, before she slips back into her running shoes. Straightening her posture Joan runs a hand through her hair, now a mess of Jamie’s insistent fingers.

“I should go, Sherlock will be wondering.” Joan can’t tear her eyes away from Jamie’s mouth, how it morphs into a smug smile, because Jamie _knows_ that with a little bit of conviction Joan would stay the rest of the evening and forget everything outside of this hotel room.

“Of course, darling.” Jamie rises to her feet and closes the distance between them with a few steps.

Arousal is still thrumming through her veins, and with Jamie more or less naked in front of her Joan can’t resist to let her hand run over Jamie’s stomach, enjoying the feeling of muscles contracting under her touch.

With another step Joan’s hand is trapped between their bodies, and Jamie leans in to breathe a chaste kiss on Joan’s lips.

“I have to leave for Bulgaria in a few days.” Another kiss, lasting longer with Jamie nipping on Joan’s bottom lip. “But I’m sure we can find an arrangement.”

Joan hums in agreement, before they finally part, and Joan leaves with a fluttering stomach and adrenaline pumping through every cell. She feels like running again to get rid of this excess energy.

Barely out of the elevator she feels her phone vibrate against her thigh. Joan swipes her thumb over the screen to open the incoming message, a smile tugging on her lips when she reads Jamie’s name.

_**\- Dinner tonight, 9pm?** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus it ends. I'm sorry it took me so long to finish this last chapter, but other fandoms happened and I didn't want to rush this into just a few hundred words, so I hope you're satisfied with the outcome (even though there are parts I'm not totally satisfied with, but when am I ever *sighs*) and enjoyed this little fanfic. I sure as hell did writing it. 
> 
> For more writing, fanfiction and random fandom stuff follow me on tumblr: killingmesoftlywiththesesongs.tumblr.com  
> My ask box is always open for prompts, ideas, or just a friendly hello! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration and (chapter-)title(s) by Lana Del Rey's 'Serial Killer'.


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